


𝐃𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨 🁡 𝑀𝑟𝑠. 𝐷𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑜𝑤𝑎𝑦

by Adrenalineshots, sonshineandshowers, TheFibreWitch



Series: Domino 🁡 [4]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, Digital Art, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hallucinations, Harassment, Health Emergency, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Mental Health Issues, Metafiction, Murder Mystery, Nightmares, Suicide Attempt, Surrealism, Teenage Bright, Trauma, Unreliable Narrator, Video, a lot of really strange stuff that happens in altered states of consciousness, anxiousness, canon minor character death, past self-harm, reader-driven
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:40:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26502298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adrenalineshots/pseuds/Adrenalineshots, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFibreWitch/pseuds/TheFibreWitch
Summary: Selecting 𝑀𝑟𝑠. 𝐷𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑜𝑤𝑎𝑦 from the bookshelf, Malcolm travels through his own mind.Read this story at:https://www.thedominostory.com/#mrs-dallowayThis book is one part of the Domino series. If you have not yet read thePrefaceorIntroduction, please head there first.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo/Jackie Arroyo
Series: Domino 🁡 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1926451
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1
Collections: Domino 🁡, Prodigal Son Big Bang 2020 - Saturday Posts





	𝐃𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨 🁡 𝑀𝑟𝑠. 𝐷𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑜𝑤𝑎𝑦

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jameena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jameena/gifts), [MissScorp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissScorp/gifts), [ProcrastinatingSab](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProcrastinatingSab/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Mrs. Dalloway](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/685258) by Virginia Woolf. 



> This book is one part of the Domino series. If you have not yet read the [Preface](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26497927/chapters/64577434#workskin) or [Introduction](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26497927/chapters/64588537#workskin), please head there first.
> 
> Betaed by the wonderful [Jameena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jameena/), [MissScorp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissScorp/), and [ProcrastinatingSab](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProcrastinatingSab/).
> 
> Credit to the creators and their works that inspired and were referenced in this work:  
>  **— Inspiration:**[Mrs. Dalloway](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mrs_Dalloway) \- Virginia Woolf, [The Hours](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Hours_\(novel\)) \- Michael Cunningham  
>  **— Cover Song:**[The End](https://youtu.be/HSgZLrse2Bg) \- Diane Birch

[](https://www.thedominostory.com/images/full/mrs-dalloway.jpg) |   
---|---  
  
Malcolm said he would buy the flowers himself.

A spray, not a fancy bouquet, a yearly tradition for Jackie to come home to on her birthday. Birthdays with her became birthdays without her, down at the river where Gil and Malcolm had secretly spread her ashes. They weren’t supposed to, but that was what she wanted, so they did it anyway.

Taking the flowers apart and floating them out onto the river is a slow process, Malcolm’s fingers getting caught and poked with prickers. Reds, oranges, and pinks drift away from the bank until all he’s left with is stalks, the fibrous remains of a once beautiful harmony.

He’d first gone with Gil and Jackie to the river when he was fifteen, sixteen? Gil had insisted that he needed to put on a swimsuit so they could all get in the water. Swimming in the Hudson? It hadn’t been something that was ever on his list. On top of that, he wouldn’t be able to hide his scars if he stripped down to a swimsuit.

“It’s just us, kid,” Gil had said, a reassuring hand on the back of his neck.

Malcolm had shed his shirt reluctantly and ran for the water so his scars could hide beneath the surface. Gil and Jackie had chased after him, and the three of them pushed water at each other and giggled until their fingers shriveled to prunes and they needed to put on a fresh coat of sunscreen.

They went every year, sometimes a few times, but always to celebrate Jackie’s birthday. To celebrate their connection as a family. The river was filled with warm memories.

Eve had ended up in that same river. Plunged into the murky water like a forgotten token, left to decompose as if she wasn’t someone’s daughter or friend. Her end was more torturous than anyone deserved, representative of a barbaric crime. He reckons parts of her remain in the water that will never be recovered.

The water’s not exactly warm. Malcolm’s Oxford goes in without any effort, becoming a vessel for the river to flood. Foot squishing inside, his second foot follows, the legs of his $10,000 suit getting covered in muddy water from after the rain. The walk forward is a lot slower than his childhood, no Gil and Jackie chasing after him. No giggles and shrieks and games until they’re sun-kissed pink.

There’s a drop-off once he reaches mid-thigh, and he’s suddenly in up to his chest. The base of his jacket floats to the top, trying to resurface for air. The water lapping at him is a chilling bath, washing out his insides.

His footsteps are silent, continuing out toward the wandering petals, the water reaching up to his neck. Testing a little bit more, the water brushes underneath his nose, his mouth taken out of the equation for breathing.

Does he need air anymore? The people he loves are in this river — he can join them. He only needs another step or so, maybe two. It’s a challenge, how far he can go before his feet can’t touch the riverbed while his head’s above the water. The logical answer seems to be sinking lower.

It only takes a second of inhaling the burn of muddy river water for his body to fight and shoot back to the surface. He turns around and swims a stroke so he can stand at neck level again.

It’s not his time to go. Some people he loves might be in that water, but Gil’s waiting for him at home. JT and Dani are waiting for him to come into work the next day, counting on him to help catch a criminal. Malcolm can’t be selfish — he never wanted to do _that_. He has access to great healthcare, a whole support network of people who care about him, means and options and —

Fuck, what was he thinking? That he’d somehow grown gills and could breathe underwater? Wiping the water from his face, he chastises himself for his stupidity. He didn’t set out to do anything but be closer to his family today. It’s Jackie’s day. Jackie’s flowers. Their time at the river.

Malcolm brushes his wet hair back and admires a few boats bobbing at the opposite bank. The sun heading toward the horizon as it sets. The petals that drift toward the harbor, memorializing the woman he loved as a mother.

The person he needs to be with isn’t there.

Plodding the long trip back to shore, his suit emerges from the river pouring water onto the bank. He thinks to call for a cab and pulls his phone out of his pants pocket. Simultaneously realizing he’s far too wet to get into a cab and his dunked phone is likely the casualty of the day, he hopes for some reprieve.

Between his latest model of phone and upgraded case, the screen turns on. He calls without thinking, hearing a sad voice through the line, “What is it, kid?”

“Can you come get me?” Malcolm asks quietly. “I’m sorry to ask today — i-it hasn’t been a good day.”

“Are you safe? Where are you?” Rustling comes through the phone, the clink of keys knocking together.

“I brought flowers to Jackie. I’m — “ He searches for words that won’t be a lie and won’t end in Gil panicking before he arrives. “Just waiting.”

“I’m coming. Tell me about the flowers,” Gil says, his car revving to life in the background.

“All of her favorites,” Malcolm replies. “Not done up like my mother’s parties, but same quality.”

“Should we get some more to bring home?”

Malcolm sits on the ground, kicking away a few stones. “I don’t think I want to look at them in the house.”

“Okay.”

“Do you want them?” The day has to be harder for Gil, and Malcolm’s sure not making it any easier.

“No, it’s okay.”

“I’m sorry, Gil,” Malcolm says, his voice heavy with regret.

“For what?”

“You shouldn’t have to do this.”

“I’d always rather you call. Plus, we can go for dinner or something.”

Gil won’t think the same once he sees him. “Maybe.”

“I’m a few minutes out.”

“Okay.”

Malcolm rests his head against his knee and listens to Gil ramble on talking to him, glad he’s always there to come collect him. He doesn’t know what he’ll say, but it doesn’t matter as he strains to find petals lingering in the distance.

— ◌◯◌ —

“Lars didn’t mind the countryside, the sun-kissed water and carpet of trees the main sights visible out the window. As the train continued north, the Hudson got less murky, left its darkness behind with the city he fled. He needed to disappear, to abandon his former identity in a quest to protect the pact. Returning would never be an option.” Gil pauses reading aloud and looks up from the book to Bright.

No change.

Secrets embedded in the pages failed to bring Bright back to him. Not that he should expect otherwise, but he is willing to try anything at this point.

He needs his kid. They _all_ need his kid.

_The Catskill Noir_ rests in his hands, the latest book in a murder mystery series that is one of his favorites. He doesn’t have much time — or rather he doesn’t _make_ much time — to read these days, and his time at the hospital with seemingly nothing else to do but wait has brought the hardcover’s existence back to the forefront. Bright likes cases — why not read one to him?

Gil chuckles to himself — if the kid were awake, he’d probably debate the accuracy of the case depicted in the book. Gil finds the author’s works more accurate than most, but even he chuckles over the handling of evidence and hand-wavery from time to time. Perhaps the deviation from reality is part of what still makes them enjoyable to read — they don’t need to wait days and weeks for evidence nor deal with the stack of paperwork that often teeters in his inbox or on his desk. In the books, the cases typically get solved.

In real life, steady breathing thankfully continues, but movement doesn’t come. He waits hours that all look the same for any update or indication that his kid will wake. As he turns the pages looking for something of interest, each new line has the same background — repetitive breaths, antiseptic, and a still form.

Bright might as well have become stone, Medusa’s gaze freezing him for all eternity. Gil is frozen himself in that hospital room, stuck with a reel of _who did this to his kid?_ playing through his mind without any outlet to figure it out. He needs to rely on his team, the folks he trained and grew to be excellent investigators, and coach from the sidelines.

For as much time as they all spend at work, Bright is more important.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Head back to the [Bookshelf](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26497927/chapters/64588570#workskin) to pick another book. :)


End file.
